Chapter Text
There are three mysteries in the Demon Slayer Corps that practically no one knows the answer to: the origin of demons, the true extent of the Ubuyashiki family’s influence—
And the shatter in Tomioka Giyuu’s eyes.
There are few in the corps who have not heard of the current Water Hashira. Beyond the signature half-and-half haori framing his silhouette, beyond the graceful arch of water tides that traces the swing of his azure blade, the one other recognizable feature of the reserved man is the dark cracks along his irises, like fractures along the frozen surface of a fathomless lake.
There are even fewer who know the man behind the glacial demeanor.
Most members of the corps would say that the first time they met the current Water Hashira, his irises were already cracked like broken glass. The shattered surface of deep blue depths that threatens to swallow one into its abyss if they were to stare into them for too long. His eyes hold shadows darker than the nadir of the ocean.
Although rarely anyone can claim to truly know the story behind the shatter, there is only one thing that would cause it.
No one knows how it came about, but since the early records of human civilization people have been blessed with the existence of soulmates. Someone, chosen by forces beyond mortal comprehension, is bound to another through the invisible connections between their souls.
One may be bound to more than one soulmate, one may also be bound by none. No one knows when and where they will meet their fated ones. No one knows if they will ever meet their soulmates, even.
That is, until their eyes meet.
They say that eyes are the windows to the soul, a phrase possibly inspired by this peculiar phenomenon. When soulmates look each other in the eye for the first time, the dormant connection awakens. Many claim they feel a jolt across their body. A sudden rush of sensation, to some as if thrown in the ocean warmed by the high-noon sun, to others as if swept into the air off the cliff-edge of a mountain.
More importantly, they will see the life of their soulmate flash before their eyes, experiencing their life up to this point.
Till date there has not been one true way to explain the phenomenon, some would say it is the blessing from the gods.
Some will love each other like lovers do. Some love each other like friends do. Kindred in spirit and connected by the soul, there is no single way to love a soulmate.
It is a common claim that finding one’s soulmate is one of the best feelings one can ever experience. Some describe it as a feeling of being born, the sheer everything that overwhelms you as memories, experiences and feelings of an entirely different person flood you.
Naturally, the sensation of losing one’s soulmate would be one of the worst.
Many describe it as a sharp pain in one’s eyes. At best, it fades away like a sore ache after a few seconds. At worst, it stings and torments one for days. When they recover from the pain, that is when they see it—
A crack across the iris. That is the sign of a dead soulmate. However, the closer the bond, the deeper the cracks. If the soulmates have never met or are barely acquainted, a sole crack is the extent of the shattering. Some may go their entire lives without crossing paths with their soulmate, only to startle in pain and realize that they would never have the chance to find out who they are. If they are lifelong friends or a wedded couple, the crack expands and branches out, reflecting the depth of their loss.
The shattering does not impair one’s vision, a small blessing amidst the devastating revelation.
Still, the sight of a single crack already garners sympathy from those who see it. An undeniable truth displayed in plain sight, that you have lost your fated one.
And Tomioka Giyuu’s eyes, a striking blue of the ocean at the cusp of sunrise – where the darkness is at its deepest, are splintered with cracks all over.
No one knows who it was. No one dares to ask either. A grief so stark and raw, yet there he stands with icy stillness. Untouchable, unreachable.
Perhaps the stillness comes from the lack of life within. A hollow husk of who he once was. Remnants of a broken soul, the dolor clings onto the air around him like cloying smoke.
Those who have had the opportunity to encounter him up close will recount in hushed whispers, exchanging anecdotes in between slivers of respite. Low tones and hunched shoulders, as if uttering eavesdropped stories about a ghost. Tales spun and tattles twisted, Tomioka Giyuu is shaped and reshaped into an urban myth.
Many members of the corps do not maintain eye contact with him beyond three seconds. Call it superstition, especially in this line of work, it is unlucky to stare too long into shattered eyes. If the connection is held for too long, the misfortune that befell on them may spread to them as well.
Even when the braver ones who look straight at him, be it out of curiosity, nonchalance or necessity, get the unsettling feeling they are staring into an abyss, ruined beyond salvage.
If it were not for the haori he wears, distinct even in a moonless night, the Water Hashira would have seeped into the darkness. A silent current beneath an unrippling surface.
Even if one cannot sense the emptiness from appearance alone, they would be able to surmise it from the way he speaks, or lack thereof.
Tomioka Giyuu hardly talks. And if he does he speaks as if every word shaves a year off his life. Sparingly, stiffly, softly.
In his silence invites the voices of those who know too little but think too much. Gaps in the truth are filled by ungrounded speculations and rumors, each more outlandish than the last. And with someone as enigmatic as the elusive Water Hashira, there are as many theories as there are demons.
One theory claims that his soulmate fell victim to the bloodlust of a starving demon, and he had to watch his soulmate get torn apart by bloody hands and teeth, and hear their excruciating wails fading into nothingness as their life slipped away right in front of him.
Another popular theory is that his soulmate turned into a demon before his days as a demon slayer, and he had to kill them with nothing but his bare hands.
Cruel theories, many of them. But an unusual pair of shattered eyes compels an equally unusual speculation. In the eyes of many, Tomioka Giyuu is no longer a person, but rather an unsolvable riddle morphed into the shape of a person with eyes like a fractured ocean.
And so the truth behind the mystery remains buried. A lock fastened in place, its key undiscovered.
Tomioka Giyuu with the shattered eyes, one cannot help but wonder what kind of pain lies behind them. And with eyes as broken as his and a vision smudged with grief, one would contemplate if there is any hope of healing. Perhaps not, while demons still roam the same earth as humans.
One can only imagine.
Never let it be said that Murata is bad at keeping secrets.
He knows he is not obliged to withhold this knowledge. Tomioka has probably forgotten about his existence entirely as well. And if he were to divulge what he knows, he can say with certainty he will receive a lot more attention, interest and even recognition from his fellow corp members.
Information about Tomioka’s shattered eyes comes weighted in gold, apparently. Murata is quite sure such sort of trade, especially when related to a highly regarded member such as a Hashira, is prohibited, which probably only serves to inflate the value.
He first met Tomioka at the Final Selection. The fresh-faced boy of thirteen caught Murata’s attention immediately — to be exact, his mask did. An intricately carved fox mask was fixed to the side of his head, its gaze piercing in silent protection. His hair, dark as the night sky above them, curled around his lithe shoulders and back. The corners of his lips were tugged down in nervousness, though Murata did not blame him for he too was riddled with unease.
Standing next to him was a boy wearing a fox mask with a scar carved onto the side of its face. With hair the unusual color of fresh peaches, he stood out among the crowd. But his appearance was not the only thing that set him apart from everyone else.
Just from the confident set in his stance – feet planted firmly on the ground, hand resting composedly on the hilt of his sword – Murata could tell he was strong. Perhaps the strongest out of everyone at the Final Selection. Though Murata was not one to wager, he anticipated him to be one of the few to survive the seven days.
They made a peculiar duo, though Murata admitted there was hardly anything normal about a test that endangered those who wished to make it through the process.
The black-haired boy began to peer around, his curious gaze flitting across each participant in silent observation. When it landed on Murata eventually did he realize that he had been staring at him the entire time.
Murata flinched, feeling strangely embarrassed at being caught staring. But the boy did not react with offense and instead with mild inquisitiveness.
Tomioka’s eyes were clear like a springtime lake. It was a captivating blue, a treasured piece carved out of the sky at twilight where it would be at its bluest.
A color that Murata would remember, because it would be the last time he saw such stark clarity before everything went downhill.
That very same blue was clouded with distress when Tomioka took his first hit from a demon. It sprung out of nowhere, swiping across Tomioka’s face with a clawed hand. He was fast enough to dodge a lethal blow, but not enough to avoid its attack entirely.
Stumbling onto the ground with a pained yelp, Tomioka clutched his bleeding face. His fox mask, having cracked during the ordeal, lay scattered around him.
Before Murata could run up to help him, the demon launched itself at Tomioka again. A scream lodged in Murata’s throat as he reached out towards the boy—
A flash of green and yellow leapt into view. Then, a swirl of aquamarine waves. A startled cry from the demon. And finally, the muffled thud of a decapitated head on the forest floor.
The scarred fox-boy landed with practiced grace, the wings of his white haori flaring out in the earth-scented wind. Rushing up to Tomioka, he grasped onto his shoulders with both hands.
Even with the mask Murata could sense the concern rolling off of him. Tension stiffened the lines of his shoulders and the tassels on his mask swayed as he gave the injured boy a careful once-over.
Suddenly the boy perked up, seemingly to have sensed something.
Then he looked up at Murata, who had scurried over to their side. The unblinking stare of the scarred fox mask bore right into him. Behind it, a voice spills out, a firm request for Murata to take care of Tomioka.
Murata was not too sure why he was chosen, why he was deemed trustworthy enough to look after Tomioka. But something about the fox mask, conveying earnestness despite its carved woodenness, and the way his calloused fingers pressed into Tomioka’s shoulders, compelled him to accept.
Nodding in assent, Murata knelt down to assess Tomioka’s injury. The scarred fox-boy ran off, sprinting in a purposeful direction. Blade glinting in the moonlight, he did not spare a moment to look back.
The bleeding fox-boy called out in desperation as he threw his hand out in a futile attempt to reach for him. A gasp so despairing that Murata’s heart chilled from the helplessness in it.
With a last muster of effort Tomioka let out a ragged cry of “Wait, Sabito—” before he faltered and collapsed, falling unconscious.
Murata took him to safety, and soon after the Final Selection was over. For the remainder of the selection, Tomioka was unconscious, and remained asleep when Murata returned after passing the test.
The left side of his face was wrapped in bandages, but from what Murata heard it would not cause any permanent damage, prompting a sigh of relief from him.
The unwrapped, uninjured eye eventually pried open and Murata leaned forward in worry—
And noticed a crack that was never there before.
There was only one who died that week.
His heart plummeted.
Murata recalled the way Tomioka had reached out to that Sabito boy, the way he had held onto Tomioka’s shoulders, the way the scarred fox mask had stared straight at him.
His chest clenched, fearing the looming storm overhead.
Pushing himself up with a strained heave, Tomioka asked about Sabito, his voice faint with fatigue. The words refused to come out of Murata. Tongue fastened to his teeth, he could not find the strength to form the words he dreaded to say.
Gaze fixated on the single crack along Tomioka’s iris, Murata begged the gods to offer mercy to this poor boy.
His hesitance seemed to have unsettled Tomioka. The clouded concern in his eye curdled into anxiety and suppressed disbelief. As if he knew what Murata wanted to say, yet was restraining himself until he could hear the truth out loud.
Murata did not know how he pushed through the anguish strangling him, but he somehow mustered the strength to do so. The words spilled out like blood from a torn-open wound, because he might as well have done the same to Tomioka.
Tomioka froze, a statue trapped between the seams of time. Murata felt his own breathing halt in response. His fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist, digging crescents into his palm as he silently wished for a reaction. He wished Tomioka would cry, at least he could offer some comfort. Shout and scream even, he could deal with that.
Anything at all, except this stifling, smothering silence.
Then, in Tomioka’s widened eye, where a single crack ran along a bleak blue, Murata saw the entirety of his iris begin to shatter.
It must have been so incredibly painful. The surface of his iris cracked like fracturing ice. Murata was fortunate to have never experienced such suffering but he had heard stories. The pain akin to a splitting headache would pulse across the eyes. A searing pain so piercing many had feared they were going blind. No matter how one tried to soothe their eyes, the pain would not abate until the shattering had been completed.
Even then, Murata had not seen nor heard of a shattered pattern as extensive as Tomioka’s.
And yet, Tomioka remained still. Not one noise escaped him to indicate he registered the pain. Cautiously Murata called out to him, coaxing a response with shaky words of concern, but he was met with a blank stare.
Empty, as if the loss of his soulmate had hollowed out the soul in his own body as well.
Tomioka never looked at or spoke to him after that.
Up to the day all the surviving candidates went their separate ways ( —all but that brave boy with the scarred fox mask— ) not a single word left him.
Except the screaming. Only the screaming.
Murata could hear the wailing even from a few rooms away. While everyone else was relieved to have survived, Tomioka was the only one who felt otherwise. Each cry sent chills scampering along his skin. Murata felt his hairs raise, his heart thumping against his ribs both in sympathy and fear.
Sympathy, because he could tell how much the loss had hurt Tomioka.
Fear, because he howled like a grieving ghost, haunting the halls with his resentment. For an irrational moment Murata fretted that the doors would splinter with the force of his cries.
Till this day Murata remembers in blinding clarity the look of utter devastation on Tomioka’s face. He cannot erase it from his memory even if he tries.
Whenever his fellow members exchange whispered rumors about the stories behind Tomioka’s shattered eyes, he suppresses a shiver and forces his fists to unclench. The urge to defend Tomioka from such uncouth conjectures would bubble up his throat, but he knows that such a reaction would attract unwanted curiosity. And unwelcome interest would topple the tight-lipped bottle, its content spilling out for everyone to see and point fingers at.
He does not wish for anyone to taint an agonizing memory even more than it already is. Tomioka, of all people, does not deserve to have his wounds, still festering from sorrow, be pried and picked open.
So he locks this secret away. And he throws away the key.
The sympathy Murata harbors for Tomioka later on transforms into respect and awe when he hears news of him, once a nervous young boy flitting his gaze across his surroundings, once a heartbroken boy who shrieked until his throat bled, becoming the Water Hashira.
Though they went into the Final Selection together, Tomioka is now leaps and bounds ahead of him. But Murata holds no envy towards him, only relief that he has found the strength to keep on living, and become strong enough to protect himself and those around him.
In the occasional mission, he sees Tomioka in the distance. Lingering, coasting along the edges, like the ghost people claim him to be. Many a time he tries to build the courage to approach him, mouth aching with overdue words of admiration, only to snuff out the flame of short-lived bravery.
He doubts Tomioka remembers his face, let alone his name. And if the sight of Murata were to resurface memories of a harrowing past, he would rather retreat back into the background, out of Tomioka’s line of sight. Remaining as a forgotten vestige.
Whispers continue to echo within training halls and wisteria-crested houses about the haunting eyes of Tomioka Giyuu. Hearsay and speculations, slithering between ears and mouths, of whether the deceased soulmate is the reason he picked up a nichirin blade. If the lingering shadows clinging onto him are an aftermath of his unspoken loss.
No one knows. But Murata does.
He will ensure it stays that way.
Giyuu does not recall the last time he looked at his own eyes. Every time his gaze grazes past a mirror, a reflection on the water, a glint from his blade, he forces it away.
He does not remember what his face looks like anymore. Not like he wanted to.
He knows he has failed one of the most important people in his life. He needs no reminder of his shame, a poisoned knife that digs into the still-bleeding wound in his heart.
If the Tomioka family was actually cursed to have tragedy befall upon their soulmates, it would not surprise him.
His sister was supposed to marry her soulmate. They were the happiest couple Giyuu had ever seen, right from the start when they first laid eyes on each other.
(“It’s the most wonderful feeling, Giyuu,” Tsutako told him with a radiant smile, when he asked her what it was like to have a soulmate. Her eyes glittered like fresh dew at dawn. “You get to see how their lives have been up to now. Their memories, their emotions, you sense it all. You feel that peculiar connection like nothing before. I hope you meet your soulmate very soon, and experience the type of happiness as I have.”)
The night before her wedding, sleep evaded Tsutako with the way she was buzzing with excitement. She began to lay out her hair ribbons – gifts from her soulmate – in giddy joy, anticipating the coming morning where she would be wedded to her beloved.
She never saw the day.
Giyuu listened to Tsutako. He always listened to his sister. He listened when she told him to eat more vegetables so he could grow taller. He listened when she told him that dogs bit him because they wanted to play with him.
He listened when she told him to hide in the closet and not come out until someone came by.
He listened when she screamed in agony, her wrangled sobs piercing his soul as she choked on her own blood.
He listened when her raspy breathing petered out into lifeless silence.
Giyuu did not see her husband-to-be after she passed. He did not get the chance to. Perhaps for the best, Giyuu would not know what to say when he found out Tsutako was killed in her own home, tattered body strewn across the floor like the abandoned remains of a devoured prey, torn hair ribbons scattered around her and stained with her dried blood.
He would not have been able to look the man in the eye, knowing that he would see the grief cracking along the surface in them.
The morning after was a hazy blur for Giyuu. Faceless figures, toppled furniture, streaks of iron-tang red. Indecipherable shouting — from himself, from those who saw the aftermath. It did not matter.
Tsutako died— because of him — and so nothing else mattered.
Screams ripped out of Giyuu until his lungs gave out. He struggled and clawed at unwanted hands reaching from him ( go away, get away, don’t touch me, please don’t hurt me, stop stop stop —). His wrists itched and burned with the taut snag of rough ropes.
And then—
Silence.
It became quiet after that. He was left staring at four blank walls in a room he did not recognize. Left alone because no one knew what to do with a child who lost his sister, his innocence and his mind all in the same day. Because no one knew what to do with a child who claimed, with frenzied eyes and wrecked wails, that a demon was the cause of the tragedy.
And then one day, his relatives that he barely met arrived. Doctors, they said they were as they gazed down at him with piteous sympathy. Hands on his arms, heavy as shackles— Come with us, and forget about the demon you saw. There is no such thing as demons.
There is no such thing as demons , they said as Tsutako’s screams echoed in his head.
There is no such thing as demons , they said as he clutched onto her kimono in his hands, fingers digging into the fabric where her scent lingered still.
There is no such thing as demons , they said as he thought of the glittering dew in her eyes shrivelling into dried-out tears.
And so he ran off. Feigning obedience with muted detachment, he drifted along with them until he spotted a momentary lapse of attention. Until he caught a stolen opportunity of escape.
He ran until their voices evaporated into the air behind him. He ran until his sandals tore and his feet bled. He ran despite the burn in his lungs and the ache in his legs.
But soon his adrenaline drained before he found safety. Hunger gnawed at him and exhaustion dragged him onto the ground. As darkness consumed the edges of his vision, Giyuu used the remaining scraps of his strength to muster an apology to his sister.
When he woke up, it was dark. Faintly he realized he was still alive, as he reckoned death would not feel this tiresome.
Something rustled next to them— Giyuu turned with a weary tilt of his head. A flutter of green and yellow, and a yelp of surprise.
“You’re awake!” A bright voice reached his ears. “How are you feeling?”
Giyuu said nothing.
And then he looked up and locked gazes with eyes the color of bellflowers.
He jolted in surprise at the sensation coursing through him. As if struck by lightning, it was almost numbing. And suddenly he was not in the room anymore. Before him flashed memories that did not belong to him, of a family with hair the color of fresh peaches.
Of an unfortunate tragedy that gave a young boy the scar on his face.
The boy before him paled, seemingly having experienced the same thing as him. Shock stiffening his shoulders, he took a step back, then another.
“I-I’ll go get Urokodaki-san.”
And he fled.
As the boy’s hasty footsteps faded away, Giyuu thought back to what Tsutako told him, and wished he could tell her that it felt nothing like that.
There was nothing wonderful, nothing happy about finding his soulmate. There was no meaning in having a soulmate, if his sister was not there to meet them.
(“I hope you meet your soulmate very soon, and experience the type of happiness as I have.”)
A fulfilled wish by his late sister, perhaps. The gods’ cruel attempt to console him.
He did not want his soulmate. He wanted his sister back.
In his bitter spite towards the gods and their foul sense of humor, Giyuu refused to acknowledge the boy— Sabito, the boy introduced himself later on.
He extended the same cold treatment to the older man as well. Urokodaki Sakonji, the man whose hut he was staying at, hid his face and thoughts behind a red Tengu mask. Giyuu idly wondered if the mask was meant to hide him from the world, or the world from him.
Sabito brought him food, books, forest pickings, anything he could think of. He talked to him between pockets of silence, his sunny voice filling the walls around them.
Everything went ignored. Sabito’s words scattered to dust when they reached Giyuu’s ears. His offerings were discarded like scrapped trash.
Eventually Sabito’s patience ran thin. He began yelling at him, calling him unmanly and a coward, that if he were upset he should just let it out. But the persistent fire could not melt away the obstinate ice.
Giyuu held his silence, unyielding.
However, when Sabito grabbed Giyuu’s arm to incite a response, Giyuu lashed out. If one did not navigate through an icy lake properly, stepping too far out or leaning too much weight on a leg, the ice would crack— and pull them into the murky frigidity below.
Baring his teeth, Giyuu yanked his hand out of Sabito’s grip and shoved him away with his other arm. Caught off-footed, Sabito stumbled back and dropped the cup of tea he meant to offer Giyuu.
The cup smashed into pieces, sending hot water splattering across the wooden floorboards. The sharp sound of shattered ceramic rang in the air, almost accusatory.
Giyuu fired a challenging glare at him. Sabito’s chest puffed and he started to bristle, but Urokodaki’s hand on his tensing shoulder steadied him.
Throwing a troubled glance over his shoulder, Sabito exchanged a wordless look with Urokodaki. Giyuu watched Urokodaki give his shoulder an almost imperceptible squeeze before looking at him.
The masked man levelled a weighted stare at Giyuu. Despite the lack of sound or movement, Giyuu felt like he was pinned to where he was. Unable to back down and unable to retaliate.
When Urokodaki took a step towards him Giyuu stiffened, restless fingers clenching around his sleeves in a white-knuckled grip. His wrists pulsed with the phantom ache of rope burns.
But the old man did not strike at him. Instead, he knelt down at his side and continued to hold his gaze.
“Boy,” he said to Giyuu, who stubbornly kept his lips sealed on his own name up to this point. His voice rolled out in a gravelly rumble. Giyuu pressed his mouth into a tight line, suppressing the unease lodged in his throat.
“You have gone through a great amount of pain. I know not what you have been through, but I can tell how much hurt is bottled up within you. In this house you will only find safety and shelter — we are not your foes.”
Urokodaki’s words struck him with pangs of anguish. Something seared Giyuu’s eyes, and when he blinked tears began to roll off his face.
Once the first tears escaped him, he could not stop the overflowing dam. His grief, once previously dismissed and brushed aside with piteous scepticism, was now received with unwavering acceptance. He cried unintelligibly, in an unrestrained way that left his throat raw — thank you, I’m sorry , in lesser words.
As his sobs spilled out of him, Giyuu felt a large hand on his arm. It lacked the shackle-heavy weight this time, and felt more like a gentle tug of ocean waves, guiding him back to shore.
Giyuu started speaking after that, much to Sabito’s delight. Abandoning the reticence held together by his unease, Sabito began to talk about everything under the sun.
Through Sabito’s sharing Giyuu learnt that the other boy also lost his family to demons. Now that he realized that demons were real and not just a myth ( not— a figment of his imagination, delusions conjured from his frightened mind, hallucinations of a terrified child, as his tearstricken recounts were dismissed of being ), it really dawned upon him that Tsutako was not just killed. She was murdered .
His hands began to tremble. Not from fear, no. From anger. Rage . At the grim fate that his sister was most undeservedly given.
A firm hand on his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Sabito staring at him in resolution.
“We’re safe here. And Urokodaki-san will make us strong, so that the people around us won’t suffer like that again.”
Soulmate or not, Sabito had always inspired Giyuu.
Sabito had shown immense potential and skill during their training together. He pushed himself beyond his limits, and pulled Giyuu back up on his feet whenever he fell.
Between the firm nudges at Giyuu’s arms as Sabito corrected his posture to the playful ruffling of his hair whenever Sabito burst into laughter, Sabito had always motivated Giyuu to do better, to become better.
Though having seen Giyuu’s life through his eyes, Sabito never pitied him. He never questioned what he saw nor judged how he felt.
On the contrary, Sabito was outraged. Not at Giyuu, never at Giyuu.
Fists shaking and brows furrowed, Sabito was upset at the way Giyuu was treated by the townsfolk. After going off on a rant until his chest heaved with exertion, he turned to Giyuu. Eyes bright with renewed determination, Sabito grabbed him by the shoulders.
“From here on out, there will always be someone who believes you. Urokodaki-san believes you, I believe you. Remember that, Giyuu.”
In the late afternoon sunlight, the purple in Sabito’s eyes glowed like bellflowers at first bloom.
Giyuu wondered if this was what it was like to have a soulmate. Though a little too young to possess the eloquence to put his feelings and appreciation to words, to truly comprehend the joys of having a soulmate, Giyuu understood what it was like to have a friend.
His frosty rejection of soulmates thawed before long once he stopped misdirecting his anger at Sabito. Sabito was nothing like him, and he was nothing like Sabito. Perhaps that was why they were bound together, fitting into each other’s spaces that they alone could not fill up.
Sabito gave Giyuu the push he needed, be it an encouraging pat on the back or a literal shove. Giyuu’s calmer presence cooled the heat that had a quick tendency to find its way to Sabito’s head.
If Sabito was the sun, Giyuu would be a sunflower, unable to help himself from looking up at him and basking under his radiance.
The night before the Final Selection, they talked about what they would do afterwards. Tucked into their futons, they rambled about the missions they would do, the towns they would explore, even the food they would get to try.
In the excited prattling between two youths, their boyish excitement almost concealed the dark reality underlying their imagination.
“Do you think the demons are strong?” Giyuu suddenly asked.
Sabito frowned. “At the Final Selection?”
Giyuu said nothing. But he knew Sabito understood him — he always did.
“If they’re strong, then I’m stronger. And I’ll keep you safe.”
Giyuu’s brows dipped, a stubborn insistence. “I want to keep you safe too.”
Sabito smiled. “I know, I believe you. That’s why we’re in this together, so we can look out for each other.”
Warmth bloomed in Giyuu’s chest. He responded with an answering smile. “Okay. We’ll look out for each other.”
At that moment, Giyuu felt things were as right as they could be. A cocooning embrace that promised shelter and comfort. His sister was right, having a soulmate truly was the most wonderful feeling.
But the brightest of lights were always the first to burn out. First his sister, then Sabito.
The fading silhouette of Sabito burned into his mind for eternity. It would torment him in his waking moments and resurface in his nightmares. The hopelessness that choked him as he reached for his soulmate, the pain from his wound throbbing in his head — all that he could recall was twisted and repurposed into a punishment of his own making.
Sabito had always been stronger, faster, smarter. Giyuu did not mind that, only that he wished to be good enough to protect those around him from demons, including Sabito.
That night, as Sabito ran off into the distance, as darkness crept in the corners of his vision, he struggled to push out one last cry for Sabito. A plea to come back, not to go anywhere without him.
Because Sabito promised. Because Giyuu promised.
Then Giyuu woke up. And he was all alone again.
He did not notice the cracks in his eyes until much later. In the wisteria-crested house where he was brought to after he fell unconscious, he barely had the energy to get up, let alone look into the mirror.
Consumed with suffocating sorrow, Giyuu barely registered the next few days. It was as if he was reliving the first few days after Tsutako’s death. The sun and moon rose and fell, blank figures wandered in and out of his room, a gnawing numbness plagued every inch of his body.
And yet, the only thing that occupied his mind was the memory of Sabito lying next to him, face-to-face, as they vowed to look out for each other.
Giyuu broke his promise to keep Sabito safe. And Sabito broke his promise to stay with Giyuu.
Once again, he failed to protect someone he cherished.
Giyuu . A name that embodied righteousness and courage, carried by someone who was lacking in both.
His stomach curdled with the urge to empty itself, but he had already been hollowed up into an empty shell of what he once was.
There was nothing left in him. There was nothing left of him.
Giyuu did not recall how he made his way back to Mount Sagiri. He only comprehended having returned when the familiar red tengu mask floated into view. What once gave him comfort and safeness now struck him with shame and dread.
Urokodaki had stared at him for a long time. He said nothing, only walked up to him in hastened strides and pulled him into a crushing embrace.
Giyuu said nothing, for he knew not what he could have said to make up for his failure. Enveloped in the familiar scent of his teacher, he felt his heart shrivel with rue.
A warm palm cupped the back of his head, the other spread across his back. His teacher’s hands were gentle in their attempt to offer solace. Giyuu wished they dug into him until his bones snapped.
Urokodaki made dinner, but none of the food made it past Giyuu’s mouth, sealed by his own guilt.
Giyuu was about to go to bed, his sluggish body lacking the energy to do anything else. But with some concerned coaxing from Urokodaki he dragged himself to get cleaned up.
That was when he saw his own reflection.
The scream torn out of him almost sent his teacher into a heart attack. Frantic footsteps hurried over to Giyuu as Giyuu stared wide-eyed into the mirror.
Dark lines spread across his irises like spiderwebs. Too many to count, each crack was a mockery of his failure. Each fracture a taunting reminder of every second he wasted being unconscious while Sabito was out there fighting for his life, unaided and alone.
Hideous. Wretched. Worthless.
By the time Urokodaki rushed to his side, the mirror lay at Giyuu’s feet in broken shards, smashed by a terrified fist.
And ever since then Giyuu never looked at his face in the reflection again.
Urokodaki made no mention of his eyes, but Giyuu could sense his attention on them.
Did his teacher see failure every time he looked into Giyuu’s eyes? Was he reminded of the loss of his beloved student every time he saw the shatter in them?
Giyuu wanted to apologize, but what could a worthless apology do to alleviate Urokodaki’s grief?
There was nothing he could do to atone. The shatter was a punishment for his own weakness, one that he had borne with sullen acquiescence .
Giyuu is aware that it is unusual to have eyes so shattered like his. He would never wish such tragedy and pain on someone, but sometimes it is stifling to have his loss revealed so plainly for all to see, exposed to judgement and scrutiny.
Even someone as obtuse as he picks up on the morbid curiosity directed at him. He gets the occasional prodding questions from strangers during missions, or sympathetic remarks from some elderly folks.
More often than not, common folk would flinch the moment they see his eyes.
He never responds to them.
His haori weighs over his body, leaden. Tsutako and Sabito’s colors, a silent reminder of his ineptitude.
Giyuu drifts through the next few years. He trains and fights until his hands bleed. He tries to keep himself awake until he sees only darkness in his sleep, and not the echo of his soulmate’s silhouette.
The Master calls for his presence over multiple occasions. Giyuu does not understand why he wants to talk to him. Ubuyashiki Kagaya never asks Giyuu about his eyes or his soulmate, though he suspects Ubuyashiki, the seemingly omniscient man that he is, already knows the truth behind them.
The unmarred eyes of Ubuyashiki’s gaze right back at him. Idly, Giyuu wonders what the Master thinks when he sees the shatter in his eyes. He wonders if the first thing he sees is the qualities he lacks — strength, courage, leadership. He wonders if the Master imagines the shattering happening to himself or his own soulmate.
Lady Amane is a formidable woman, there is no doubt she can protect herself and her husband. If her eyes were to shatter, it would not be due to her inadequacy.
When Ubuyashiki brings up the idea of having him take up the mantle of the next Water Hashira, Giyuu’s mouth immediately sours with distaste. He is the last person who deserves the role of a Hashira. A title as regarded as that should not be sullied with the likes of him, someone who is unable to protect others and instead had to be protected.
Hair the color of fresh peaches and eyes the color of bellflowers flash across his mind. There was one person who should have been the Water Hashira, and he was left in the mountains, sacrificed and abandoned.
Despite his continuous refusals the Master seems undeterred by his reluctance. Though his vision is starting to fail him, his eyes are always illuminated with kindness. More kindness than Giyuu ought to receive. His patience outlasts Giyuu’s reticence, and eventually Giyuu caves to his persuasion.
Unwilling to bring disgrace to the title, Giyuu distances himself from the Hashira status and the other Hashiras. Even when the silver buttons on his uniform have been replaced with gold ones, even when people start to refer to him as the Water Hashira, he feels like he is wearing someone else’s skin.
Like the fox mask that broke in the Final Selection, the title has fallen into the hands of someone far too unequipped to take proper care of it. It is a poor fit, made to suit someone far better than he.
But he will fight on. As long as he still breathes, he will continue to bring his sword down on the necks of demons. That is the very least he can do.
Until the right person comes along, he will slot himself as a placeholder for the Water Hashira. Until someone stronger and more deserving of the title comes along, he will hold onto this borrowed life.
A frail caw puts a pause to his steps and thoughts. He looks up in time to catch Kanzaburo as it crashes into his chest. After Giyuu steadies the trembling bird, it squawks out instructions to head to a snowy mountain.
The work of a demon slayer never ends, not even for a false Hashira such as he.
Brushing the dust off his sleeves, fingers running through the threads of Tsutako and Sabito’s memories, Giyuu makes his way to his next mission.